But when I refreshed it again, all I saw was the spinning loading symbol. He had probably blocked me.
Mason stood there, staring at me as he walked into the room. The silence felt thick, so I broke it with a casual, “I didn’t think you’d come back tonight.”
He reflexively answered, “No, I’m just working overtime.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, we both froze. The smell of disinfectant clung to him—clearly, he’d just come back from the hospital. And besides, he had taken leave today for our date, so there was no “overtime.”
I couldn’t help but think about all the times he’d used that excuse before. The nights he didn’t come home, the forgotten anniversaries, the time he left me at the hospital with a fever. Always “busy,” always “working late.” At some point, his words turned from reasons into excuses, each one a flimsy shield hiding something deeper. But honestly, I didn’t care anymore.
He looked like he wanted to explain, but his gaze shifted to the calendar on the wall. The date, exactly seven days from now, was marked with a big star I had drawn.
“What’s happening on that day? Someone’s birthday? An anniversary? What do you need me to do?”